


On the Mend

by alexanderavery998



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conflicted Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is objectively terrible, Kintsugi, Kintsugi teacup, M/M, Murder Family, POV Will Graham, Post-Episode: s02e09 Shiizakana, Season 2, Teacup Metaphors, Will Graham Knows, goddamnit Hannibal, slight fudging of canon timelines, some reuse of canon dialogue, this was supposed to be short but it got away from me, time doesn't have to reverse if you put the teacup back together yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderavery998/pseuds/alexanderavery998
Summary: Will finds Hannibal glaring at a broken teacup. Knowing all too well that time can’t reverse, Will picks up the shattered pieces and shows Hannibal that there are other ways for a teacup to come back together.A story told in seven pieces.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 163





	On the Mend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qvantisation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qvantisation/gifts).



> _I cross-post here (AO3), Wattpad, and FFN as_ @alexanderavery998. _If you find my fics anywhere else, please let me know, because that means they have been reposted without my permission._
> 
> This fic was inspired by an off-hand comment by my girlfriend, who mentioned that she gets really annoyed with Hannibal for wanting to reverse time to fix broken teacups when, and I paraphrase, “hasn’t he ever heard of glue?!” _On the Mend_ is my response to that. This was a ride to write, and I’m planning a sequel, so I hope you all enjoy! And please feel free to leave comments, as they make my day. :)

**I**

Will Graham stood in the waiting room, steeling himself to enter Hannibal Lecter’s office. To say that it had been one hell of a month would be the understatement of the century. Newly exonerated and released from the BSHCI, Will had had no time to breathe before being accosted, yet again, by Jack Crawford. Jack hadn’t even given him a chance to leave the damn building. This time, he was ready to believe Will about the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. Part of Will wanted to throw it in his face, tell him, _it’s too goddamn late, Jack, you missed your chance_ , anything other than agreeing to work with him again.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Not now that someone was _finally_ listening to him.

The funny thing was, having someone listen to him didn’t seem to have made his life any easier. If anything, it had made it even more difficult.

Will wasn’t sure what was worse: when he had been worried that he was going crazy and murdering people without any memory of his actions, or now, when he was presumably sound of mind and still having vivid murder fantasies.

A mere two days after his release, he’d pointed a gun at Hannibal’s head in the darkness of his kitchen and fantasized about splattering his brain matter all over the pristine fridge. The next day, he’d scraped together enough money to enhance his wardrobe and control his unruly curls, imagining Hannibal’s heated gaze on him and wondering if he would step close enough to be strangled. Two days later, he’d shown up at Hannibal’s office at seven-thirty sharp, secretly pleased to find that his appointment time had been left open. When Hannibal had asked if Will was going to point a gun at him again, a thrill had travelled down his spine. _If only_ , he’d thought. “Not tonight,” he’d said.

So sue him if he hadn’t told Jack about his plan to lure Hannibal into revealing himself until _after_ he had already put the plan into motion. What Jack didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Unfortunately, active murder fantasies were currently the least of Will’s problems. His _real_ problems involved actual murder.

 _Self-defense_ , he told himself, but every time he said it, it sounded feebler. Sure, it had been self-defense when Randall Tier had come crashing through his picture window in a deadly cave bear suit. Slightly less so when Will had opted to throw away his shotgun and beat Tier with his bare hands. Less again when he had brutalized Tier before snapping his neck, and less still when he had taken the body to Hannibal instead of calling the cops.

And when he’d dismembered the corpse, broken into the museum in the dead of night, and mounted Tier on a cave bear skeleton...

Okay, so maybe pleading self-defense was a bit of a stretch. But at least Jack knew about this one, and while he didn’t actively condone it, he was doing a damn good job of looking the other way.

There was just one other problem...well, okay, more than one.

Will had enjoyed the kill. And goddamnit, the warm look in Hannibal’s eyes and the gentle way that he had tended to his wounds had rattled him more than he wanted to admit.

Will wanted to hate Hannibal so badly. He _should_ hate Hannibal — he had encouraged his seizures and blackouts, covered up his encephalitis, isolated him from his friends and colleagues, framed him for his crimes, shoved a goddamn ear down his throat, and murdered Beverly and Abigail. Not to mention he was still sleeping with Alana; the very idea made Will want to bash his skull in. But his biggest sin was killing their adoptive daughter and convincing Will that _he_ was the one who had killed her. He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive Hannibal for it.

He _shouldn’t_ forgive Hannibal for it. He shouldn’t even _consider_ forgiving Hannibal for it.

He should hate Hannibal...and that was the problem. Will wanted to strangle him and watch the life leave his eyes, but he didn’t hate him. He wouldn’t be able to explain it if somebody put a gun to his head. He tried not to think about it; it went in the same box that _I enjoyed killing Randall Tier_ and _I think I might still consider Hannibal a friend_ went in. The box was getting rather full. He also didn’t think about that.

Will ran his hand across his beard, closed his eyes, and sighed. The longer he stood dumbly outside of Hannibal’s office, the more likely it was that Hannibal would find him here, and he didn’t want to lose the element of surprise. He took a deep breath and stabilized himself. Then he knocked on the door.

After a moment, he heard Hannibal say, “Come in.”

Will stepped in and closed the door. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but whatever it was, it didn’t involve Hannibal barely glancing in his direction. Hannibal hadn’t even made eye contact with him. Instead, he sat at his desk silhouetted by the roaring fire, suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, his eyes on something that Will couldn’t see.

Irritation roiled in Will’s gut. He didn’t style his hair and drive all the way over here just for Hannibal to fucking _ignore_ him.

Will moved farther into the room, quiet but with the intent of making his presence unignorable. It seemed to work, because as he trailed his fingers along the immaculate bookshelves, Hannibal finally spoke.

“Will. I wasn’t expecting you. Have we gone back to paying each other friendly visits?”

“You know as well as I do that we’re not friends, Doctor Lecter. Not anymore.”

Will turned to gauge Hannibal’s reaction, but he was still in his chair, angled away from him, one elbow propped on his desk as he stared into space. Even in the flickering shadows of the fire, Will caught the strange emotion on his face. It was almost anger, but not quite. Not quite sadness, either. If Will thought that somebody like Hannibal was capable of regret, that was the closest emotion he could find to describe it. Will shoved his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel, clenching his jaw as he passed under the ladder leading up to the lofted area. No, Hannibal didn’t experience _regret_. He murdered people without regret. He destroyed Will’s life without regret. He’d killed Abigail without regret. Will wasn’t going to let himself be manipulated by a façade of human emotions, even if they seemed real.

Hannibal spoke again. “Yet here you are, seeking out my company. Our next therapy appointment isn’t until next week. Unless there is something urgent you need to discuss now?”

The responding surge of emotions in Will’s chest was nearly impossible to untangle. He recognized frustration, longing, regret, grief...and rage. That was why he had come to see Hannibal: he needed to feel the anger, let it surge through him and wash away everything else that could be detrimental to capturing him. He needed to remind himself _why_ he was doing this. Needed to know that he could look the bastard in the face and not miss when things between them were less complicated, when they considered each other _friends_.

“The FBI still has no leads on the murder of Randall Tier.”

That got Hannibal to look up for a moment, his eyes two dark pools in the low light. “You sound confident in that.”

“I am.”

Will expected more from him, but Hannibal’s eyes dropped and he turned away, back to where he had been facing. “Is that what you came here for? To tell me that the FBI is incompetent?”

“It means that neither of us is a suspect,” Will said, forcing himself to loosen the tension in his jaw even as he felt it tighten. Hannibal sounded so dismissive that Will had a sudden, vivid image of throwing him to the floor and holding him there by an iron grip on his throat. It took every ounce of restraint that Will had to prevent his annoyance from seeping into his tone of voice — and to prevent him from carrying out his violent impulse. “There is no FBI bloodhound to point in your direction this time, Doctor Lecter. Or mine.”

“Instead, the bloodhound has become the culprit. Where will you point, I wonder?”

“I don’t have to point anywhere. No leads, the case grows cold...it becomes a minor blip on the FBI’s radar. An instance where even the _great Will Graham_ was stumped and the killer got away.” Will let his disdain and sarcasm drip from every word.

Hannibal still wasn’t looking at him, his eyes focused on something on the other side of his desk. “Tell me, Will. When the dust settles, will you embrace your instincts? Or will the bloodhound run back to the FBI with its tail between its legs?”

The words stung more than Will expected them to. He felt his lip twitch into the beginning of a sneer, but he held back. He wasn’t going to let Hannibal goad him into this. He wasn’t.

“I’ve already begun to embrace my instincts,” Will said instead. “You’ve seen to that.”

In the pause that followed, the only sound in the room came from the crackling of logs settling in the fireplace. Hannibal was so still that he resembled a statue, all high cheekbones and sharp lines. His eyes were still fixed on something near the ground. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to respond, Will approached the desk. As he came around the edge, he saw what was preoccupying Hannibal: a shattered teacup, likely expensive but completely empty, its bone-dry shards scattered across the wooden floorboards.

Will settled against the edge of the desk. It felt dangerous to turn his back to Hannibal, yet here he was, doing so casually. It was a gamble, a show of trust. The thought sent a tingle down his spine. Hannibal could kill him right now, if he wanted to. Will almost wanted him to try, just so he could have a reason to kill him with his bare hands and watch the life leave his eyes in the flickering glow of the fire. _It was self-defense_ , he’d say, putting on the appropriate shell-shocked expression as his colleagues swarmed around him and analyzed the body on the floor. _He tried to kill me. Stab me. Open me up and crawl inside. He said — he said he’d eat my heart._

The quiet stretched between them, taut and expectant, almost as if the air itself were holding its breath.

“A family heirloom?” Will asked eventually, glancing at the porcelain shards on the ground.

Hannibal stirred slightly, a small sigh escaping his lips. “No. Those are few and far between.”

“A gift, then.”

“The cup itself is unimportant.”

“Then why are you glaring at it?”

Hannibal didn’t respond immediately. When he did speak, his voice was a quiet rumble. “Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor. On purpose.” He paused. Will stayed silent, waiting. “I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again.”

Will frowned, mostly to himself, since he was sitting with his back to Hannibal. “Are you referencing Stephen Hawking?” He turned, hitching his leg up to settle himself as comfortably as possible on the desk corner, where he could see Hannibal without twisting his back. Hannibal’s eyes meeting his were enough of an answer.

“Teacups don’t come back together, Doctor,” Will said roughly, almost surprised by his own sharpness. “Broken cups stay broken. The dead stay dead. You can’t unbreak a cup anymore than you can decrease entropy. Some actions...” He swallowed, his throat suddenly thick and clogged. “Some actions have permanent consequences.”

 _Abigail_. Poor, sweet Abigail. Will wanted to feel angry, he _should_ feel angry, but all he felt was empty. Hollowed out. Aching with loss and grief and regret and longing for what could have been. If it was possible, Hannibal’s face was an echo of Will’s emotions. Could he actually feel regret for what he’d done to Abigail? Or was it just another piece of his immaculately-constructed person suit?

Will slipped off the corner of the desk and squatted down, picking up one of the larger shards and examining it in the firelight. The porcelain was tinted orange where the light touched it and blue where the shadows hid away from the fire.

“I still dream about Abigail.” The words came unbidden. “I dream that I’m teaching her to fish.”

“I’m sorry I took that from you.” If Will didn’t know better, he would say that Hannibal was as sorry as he sounded, voice thick with emotion. “I wish I could give it back.”

Will blinked back the wetness in his eyes. “So do I.”

“Someday, perhaps, a cup will come back together.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Will clenched his fist around the piece of porcelain, and the sharp edges sliced into his palm mercilessly. “Fuck you.” He threw the shard down, blood dripping from his hand, then stood up and paced away. He barely felt the stinging pain in his hand or the blood dripping down his arm. The rage was back, so much that he was shaking with it. How _dare_ Hannibal act as if he was sorry, how _dare_ —

Will paced back and forth by the curtained windows, his blood roaring in his ears as he tried to control himself. Abigail wasn’t a goddamn teacup. She had been a living, breathing human being, and to think that Hannibal was so delusional as to hope that someday he could reverse time whenever he made a decision that he wanted to take back — the fucking nerve of him— 

The roaring in his ears was so loud that he didn’t notice that Hannibal had moved until he was approaching with a first aid kit. Part of Will wanted to continue his tirade, tell him to fuck off, refuse medical assistance, anything other than let Hannibal near him. But his body was still shaking even as his rage ebbed away, and instead, he found himself slumped in his usual chair, arm stretched out on the armrest, injured palm up. Hannibal’s gentleness as he lifted Will’s hand and examined the self-inflicted wound made Will’s chest ache. It scared him how easily his other emotions could overturn his righteous anger and smooth it into something less vengeful. It scared him how the other man’s touches simultaneously soothed and ignited him. It scared him how comfortable it felt to slip back into quiet camaraderie with Hannibal. How normal and natural it felt to be here with him, instead of at home with his dogs, tossing and turning his way to restless sleep.

_You attracted a killer. Why do you think that is?_

_Must I denounce myself as a monster while you still refuse to see the one growing inside you?_

Will gritted his teeth and focused on the pain throbbing in his hand. It was grounding in a way that his mental pain never was, something that he could think about instead of the voices in his head that were getting harder and harder to drown out. He refused to let Hannibal convince him that they were just alike. Hannibal was a monster. A predator. A murderer. Will wasn’t any of those. He _wasn’t._

_Who are you trying to convince, Will? Me or yourself?_

The stinging sensation of Hannibal disinfecting the wound jerked Will out of his thoughts abruptly. Hannibal’s fingers were light, deft, as well-practiced in healing as they were in taking life away. Yet there was nothing clinical about it — every touch felt like a caress, a kiss, a love letter to Will’s skin.

The aching in Will’s chest was back.

“Why did you kill her?” Will whispered, his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s hands as they gently rubbed salve into his wound.

“What happened to Abigail had to happen. There was no other way.”

Will shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely a rasp. “There was. But there isn’t now.”

Even the great Hannibal Lecter didn’t seem to have a response to that. Will clocked the faint twisting of the doctor’s lips dimly, from somewhere half-buried in his subconscious, but he was more focused on furiously blinking back his tears, one of which had escaped down his cheek. Hannibal had finished with the salve and was now carefully wrapping Will’s injured palm in gauze bandages. Will wiped the tear away with his free hand. It was surreal that less than two weeks before, this notorious serial killer had tended to him in much the same manner after he had shown up at his doorstep with the body of Randall Tier.

_I sent someone to kill you. You sent someone to kill me. Even-Steven._

So why did Will feel as though he was still standing on uneven ground?

“The teacup.” Will cleared his throat to rid his voice of the raspiness, his eyes still unfocused and aimed at his bandaged hand. “What are you going to do with it?”

Hannibal put the finishing touch on Will’s bandages and set his hand down gently on the armrest. His fingers lingered for a moment longer before he pulled away.

“I was going to sweep it up and put it in the trash.”

“Don’t.” Hannibal’s eyes locked onto his face, but Will refused to meet them. Instead, he stood up and said, “Do you have something I can take it in?”

**II**

The ride home, usually a long one, seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. On the floor of the passenger seat was the box of porcelain shards. Will still wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing this. He had felt ridiculous as soon as he’d asked to take the shattered cup with him, but there was no way that he was going to go back on it once his request was out in the open. To waffle on it was to show weakness.

Hannibal had seen enough of his weakness to last a lifetime.

Will scooped up the box, locked his car, and climbed the porch stairs to his front door. His dogs started barking in anticipation. He opened the front door and let them out; they poured out around his ankles like water flowing from a dam. He felt a lot like a dam lately, moving desperately to moor up any cracks or weak spots before everything he was holding back worked themselves free. He didn’t trust his ability to put it all away again if the dam broke.

He cleared away a spot on his desk to set down the box and lit a fire in the fireplace to chase away the creeping late autumnal chill. Then he poured himself a very generous glass of whiskey and stood on the front porch, watching his dogs poke and sniff around in the dark. By the time he ushered his dogs back inside and wiped off their paws, it was too late at night and he was too buzzed to occupy himself with the teacup. Will stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and slid into bed.

His dreams were a melting kaleidoscope of blood, broken porcelain, and Abigail gasping desperately for air as he failed to hold her shattered pieces together.

**III**

Will woke up in the morning with a headache. For a brief, panicked moment, he had flashbacks of his encephalitis, of flashing strobe lights and Hannibal’s hands massaging his face as he forced a tube down his throat, and his chest seized. He stumbled out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom before he heaved. Afraid as he was to look, there was no ear in the sink. His stomach was empty.

He leaned against the wall and let himself cry the tears he hadn’t cried yesterday.

When he eventually stopped shaking, he poured himself a strong cup of black coffee and let the dogs out. Every time his headache surged, his heart sped up, but now that he was no longer in a half-asleep state, he recognized that he’d had a little bit too much to drink the night before. He was hungover, not experiencing encephalitis. Though in some odd way, the overdrinking was sort of Hannibal’s fault, too, he thought spitefully.

Yet, even after everything, Will found himself clearing away the fishing lures and tying materials on his desk to have room for the teacup. There were seven pieces in all; there had been six, but the one that he had cut himself on and thrown to the ground had broken in two. There was also a bit of porcelain grit at the bottom of the box, ensuring that even when the pieces were put back together, the cup would no longer be the same.

 _You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup_. He hadn’t thought about that conversation in ages, but Hannibal’s voice was as clear as ever in his head.

Everything came back to Hannibal at this point. He didn’t know why he was still surprised.

Will chewed on his lip as he pulled up Google on his laptop. He knew vaguely what he was looking for, but it wasn’t until he typed in “how to fix broken cup” and scrolled through the results that he found it: kintsugi or kintsukuroi, the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery. The presence of Japanese artwork and other artifacts in Hannibal’s house was not lost on Will, but he was less interested in matching his carefully-constructed aesthetic and more focused on the ideology behind the art. The only person Will had dated during his time in undergrad had had a couple of decorative kintsugi cups on a shelf in their dining room, and it stuck with him. Repairing something in a way that not only refused to shy away from its imperfections but also made beauty out of brokenness resonated with him on a level that he hadn’t chosen to analyze until much later.

It was also an art form that took ages, if done traditionally. Doubts from the night before came back over Will in full force, strengthened by the daylight, his headache, and the panic with which he had awoken. Why the fuck was he doing this? He shouldn’t be doing _anything_ for Hannibal. This was the same man who had framed him, drugged him, manipulated him, and traumatized him. Why was he even thinking about this when he was supposed to be doing everything in his power to help Jack put him behind bars? And anyway, even if there was a part of Will that rebelled from that, it was ridiculous to think that such a symbolic, useless gesture would do anything. What could a glued-together teacup really do? It wasn’t going to show Hannibal not to kill people that he supposedly cared about, and it wasn’t going to bring back Abigail. So why was he trying?

His cellphone rang, startling him out of his spiral. The caller ID said it was Jack.

Will sighed and scrubbed a hand across his beard, contemplating whether to pick up or not. His relationship with Jack was...complicated. He didn’t hate his boss; he understood why he did what he did. Jack wanted to catch his killers, and if that meant working Will hard, past his breaking point, even, then so be it. He was the kind of man to subscribe to the idea that you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelette, except that the omelette was saving countless lives and the eggs were the well-being of his employees and himself.

There were moments where Will could sympathize with Jack, like with his wife’s struggle with cancer, and moments where Jack was almost a friend. But other times resentment stirred in him and reared its inconvenient head. Resentment that catching killers was more important to him than Will’s sanity; that when Will had wanted to quit, he’d guilted him into staying; or that Jack pushed his self-sacrificing worldview onto everyone else. Maybe Jack was okay with working himself to the bone for the greater good, but some days, Will just wanted to get away from it all. Take his dogs and move to the middle of bumfuck nowhere to fish and fix boat motors. Get so far away from the killers he profiled that he would no longer have to worry that he was going to become one of them.

But Will needed Jack to believe he was his man in this (he was, wasn’t he? he _was_ ), so after he stalled as long as he could, he picked up the phone.

“Graham.”

“Will. How’s it proceeding with Lecter? Has he said or done anything incriminating yet?”

And there it was. No _hi how are you_ , no _sorry I called you at 10:30 am on a Saturday_ , just straight to business.

Hannibal would find it unspeakably rude.

“Define ‘incriminating,’” Will said as he laid out the pieces of porcelain and frowned at them. “If you want a clear-cut confession, I told you, we aren’t getting one. He’s too clever for that.”

“‘Incriminating’ is whatever leads us to catching him.”

Will thought of Hannibal admitting that he’d helped Abigail hide Nick Boyle’s body, of implicitly acknowledging that he had sent Randall Tier to try to kill Will, or of the history he had with troubled patients becoming killers. Will thought about Hannibal’s therapist whispering through the bars, _I believe you_. He thought of all the times Hannibal had talked about how God must enjoy killing, how he’d coaxed the truth out of Will about how killing Hobbs had felt, or of Margot’s confirmation that his other patients were being given similarly “unorthodox” therapy. He thought about Hannibal calmly cleaning his wounds while Tier’s dead body cooled on the dining room table beside them.

“No. Nothing.”

Jack let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sticking my neck out for you, Will. I need this to work.”

Will scrubbed a hand over his beard. “I told you, Jack, I’m a good fisherman. He’s in a more receptive place after Tier. I just need a little more time.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Jack said, “Okay. Okay. Keep me updated, yeah? And if he gives us anything, you let me know.”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

Then the phone went dead. No goodbye, no acknowledgment of the difficulty of what Will was doing, not even a request for more details. The resentment was back in full force. Will bit his lip. Then he got up, grabbed his coat and car keys, and left the house.

**IV**

Will never thought he would find himself at the store on a Saturday morning looking for the right tools to glue a fancy-ass teacup back together, but here he was. The situation was comical in its bizarreness.

He’d decided against going the traditional route for a myriad of reasons, one of which being how long it would take, and another being that it took a lot of skill to do properly. He didn’t want to return the teacup to Hannibal a mess. Capturing the spirit of kintsugi was the most important part. The basics seemed simple enough: mix epoxy glue with gold mica powder, apply the mix to where the pieces had broken apart, and press them together until the glue set.

It was not as simple as it sounded.

First of all, the glue _reeked_. The smell was so strong that Will cracked the window open even though it was freezing cold outside just to get some clean air. Finding a good ratio of glue to golden powder was a balancing act, and the glue dried so fast that if he stopped stirring for too long, it would start to harden. The glue was also insanely sticky. He learned quickly to keep it away from everything except for the desired piece of porcelain, because once the glue was on something, it was very hard to get it off.

Thankfully, Will wasn’t too shabby at doing things with his hands. He fixed motors and made fishing lures on a semi-regular basis, both of which required concentration, precision, and fine motor skills, so once he figured out what he was supposed to be doing, the going smoothed out.

Out of the seven pieces, one was at least twice as big as the rest. It included the bottom of the teacup and the handle, both of which had stayed together, and around a quarter of the bowl part of the cup. There were also five pieces that were middling in size, and then one piece that was much smaller than the others. He started with the biggest piece and worked his way around until the whole cup was put back together. It looked a little messy, but at least it was done. He’d fix it up by scraping off the excess glue after letting it dry overnight.

The rest of his Saturday was uneventful. He took the dogs for a long walk through the woods and worked on fixing the patching on the window by his bed that Tier had crashed through. He’d been meaning to fix it himself instead of calling a repairman, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Will wondered idly if he ever would. In the evening, he made boxed mac n’ cheese and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He was nursing that glass, eyes on the drying teacup on his desk, when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Hannibal:

_Would you give me the pleasure of accompanying me for dinner at my place on Tuesday evening?_

Will sipped his whiskey as he pondered how to respond. Before everything had gone to shit, he used to turn down Hannibal’s dinner invitations, mostly out of social awkwardness. Now, part of his lure was to accept them often enough to show interest, but turn them down often enough for Hannibal to crave his company. Will looked at the teacup again. He texted:

_Is this a private dinner?_

Hannibal’s reply came within a few seconds. _Just you, me, and Alana._

Will frowned. He thought about turning him down and making it clear to Hannibal just how much he disapproved of his relationship with Alana, but something about that felt unsatisfactory. Almost like letting Hannibal win. He pictured how it would go if he went, instead. He could give Hannibal the teacup after dinner, almost a tease, a hint of what could be, and then leave him with Alana. Make Hannibal think about exactly what he was missing by playing this game. It was an intriguing idea.

_What time?_

This time, Hannibal’s reply was instantaneous. _7 o’clock._

Will downed the rest of his whiskey and typed, _I’ll be there._ He watched the cursor blink a few times before he hit send. There was no going back now.

Hannibal’s reply was equally quick. _Sounds good. I shall see you at 7, Will._

Will could hear Hannibal’s voice in his mind as he read it, as clear as if he had been in the same room with him. And if he stared at their text conversation long after he should’ve been asleep, turning over everything in his mind, well...that was between him and nobody else.

**V**

Tuesday evening arrived at a snail’s pace.

The teacup looked much better once he’d scraped off the excess glue. Will put it back in the box, cushioned it with crumpled-up newspapers, and wrapped it with leftover wrapping paper from when he’d bought a present for Abigail a lifetime ago, during the case of children killing their families. His chest ached thinking about it. The present was still tucked away in his house, never to be delivered to its intended recipient. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. It would be like throwing away Abigail, somehow.

He thought about Abigail and about what could’ve been as he drove to Hannibal’s.

Will arrived at Hannibal’s house a few minutes early and waited until exactly seven to ring the doorbell. Hannibal was there to open the door and lead him into the foyer. Will shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the coat tree, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, set his satchel with the box in it against the wall. Hannibal had weird boundaries, but he wouldn’t rifle through what Will had brought with him — not in this scenario, anyway. He would find it rude.

Hannibal gave him a faint smile and led him into the dining room, which was empty.

“Alana is helping me finish up the appetizer, but we will be out shortly,” Hannibal said, pulling Will’s chair out for him.

Will acknowledged Hannibal’s words with a brief twitch of his eyebrows and sat down, unfolding the fabric napkin over his lap. Despite his outward nonchalance, something bitter and annoyed stirred in his gut as Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen. Alana had no idea how much danger she was in. She held the company of a beast but saw only his immaculately-constructed person suit, and the beast encouraged it. Hannibal was blatantly and unrepentantly using her. Just the thought of him touching her, making love to her, made Will want to rip out his throat. Yet he was also irritated with Alana and how little faith she’d had — and continued to have — about his character. Will didn’t know which was stronger: his anger and frustration with Hannibal, or his resentment of and frustration with Alana.

When Alana came in, took her seat across from Will, and gave him a restrained smile, he decided he was more angry at Hannibal for driving a wedge between him and everyone else in his life. Maybe Alana wouldn’t have drifted so far away from him without Hannibal’s machinations. Still, Will couldn’t help the sharp stab of annoyance he felt when Hannibal came in to serve the appetizers and Alana gave him a much warmer, fonder smile than the one she’d given Will. He clenched his jaw and refused to give Hannibal more than a brief glance and a gruff, “Looks delicious.”

The appetizer passed with stilted pleasantries and silence. When Hannibal left to bring out the main course, Will sipped his wine and avoided looking at Alana. He could feel her eyes on him as she fidgeted with the stem of her wine glass, and he knew what he would see if he made eye contact with her: curiosity, confusion, thoughtfulness, wariness. It left an aching in his gut for what could’ve been, in another world. The ache was not strong enough for him to regret his current demeanor towards her, however. Maybe if he was cold enough, he could get her to stay away from him and Hannibal permanently.

He told himself it was for Alana’s own good. She would be safer and better off without either of them in her life. But he knew that wasn’t his only motivation.

Hannibal reentered before Alana could break the silence.

“Parmesan and garlic risotto with roasted shrimp and filet mignon,” he said, placing the entrée in front of each of them. “Served with sautéed green beans and morel mushrooms.”

“It smells divine,” Alana said, smiling at Hannibal.

Will secretly agreed, though he chose not to say so. The dish filled the room with the scent of garlic and sautéed onions, spices and cheese. Hannibal’s cooking would truly be perfect if it were not for where he got his meat. Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes linger on him and Alana as they took their first bites. As he chewed, he looked up and held Hannibal’s gaze.

“It’s delicious,” he said once he’d swallowed. He wondered who they were eating. He wondered why the thought didn’t turn his stomach.

Hannibal smiled faintly and dug into his own serving.

The room fell quiet except for the clicking of silverware against plates. Finally, Alana broke the silence between bites.

“You know,” she said, looking from Will to Hannibal, “the only thing weirder than a man mounted on an animal skeleton is seeing you two back in therapy.”

Will made eye contact with Alana. It was not friendly. Hannibal glanced at Will for a brief moment before looking at Alana.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the contents of Will’s therapy without his direct permission.”

Hannibal’s eyes strayed back to Will, and their eyes met. Hannibal looked faintly amused, but also curious. Somewhere in Will’s brain, it registered that Hannibal genuinely didn’t know what his reaction was going to be, but that he couldn’t wait to hear it. Warmth spread through his lower abdomen.

“My therapy is between myself and Doctor Lecter,” Will said after a beat, breaking eye contact with Hannibal and cutting into his meat. He could see Hannibal turning back to Alana, as if to say, _see?_ , and he felt a quiet sense of power.

Alana pursed her lips. “Of course. I don’t want to encroach on professional boundaries. I’m just concerned that your relationship doesn’t have many. Boundaries, that is.”

She looked at Will, then Hannibal, clearly seeking an explanation. Hannibal looked from her to Will and then back at her.

“Will has yet to violate any of my boundaries,” he said pleasantly.

Will suppressed a smile, half bitter and half triumphant. Meanwhile, Alana looked more than slightly incredulous, likely thinking of Will’s attempt to murder Hannibal. She turned to Will, one eyebrow raised. Will returned it, deadpan.

Alana made one last attempt. “It’s just hard to know where you are with each other.”

Will made eye contact with Hannibal for a brief moment, and then locked eyes with Alana, almost daring her to look away. “We know where we are with each other. Isn’t that enough?”

Alana clenched her jaw. The conversation was over, and Hannibal’s amusement was more obvious now, even though that still meant it was subtle.

“Better the devil you know,” Hannibal quipped. If looks could kill, the one that Alana shot him would’ve done him in.

The rest of their meal passed in mostly awkward silence. When they neared the end, Hannibal stood up, buttoning his suit jacket.

“Will, would you be so kind as to help me put the finishing touches on the dessert?”

Will met Hannibal’s eyes, but they gave nothing away beyond the faint amusement he had shown the entire evening. He gave a jerky nod and stood.

As Will suspected, Hannibal didn’t actually require help with the dessert, but he kept up the pretense by having Will add fruit to each plate of mini cake as he whipped the cream sauce. Unlike the uncomfortable silence in the dining room with Alana, theirs was less awkward and more anticipatory, as if they were waiting for the other to make the next chess move so they could recalibrate their game plan.

Will finished putting fruit on the last plate and leaned against the counter, watching Hannibal. He was so graceful while cooking. It was like a choreographed dance that only he could hear the music to. Being given a helpful task to do felt like being taught how to hear the music, something reserved only for the most special connections in his life. Will, and...

“I can’t help but wonder why you asked me to help instead of Alana.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked up. “Perhaps I subscribe to equal distribution of labor.”

Will snorted, but it wasn’t hostile. “Between your not-friend and girlfriend?”

Hannibal pursed his lips, looking at the cream sauce he was whipping instead of Will. “Has the light of friendship moved any closer to us than a million light-years, Will?” He looked up then, meeting Will’s eyes.

Will wanted to lie and say no, but he didn’t think it would be believable. As it was, true friendship between them was a lot closer than Hannibal might imagine. He shrugged one shoulder with feigned nonchalance.

“Perhaps it’s a hundred thousand light-years, instead.”

Hannibal’s resulting smile was genuine. He chuckled and began to spoon cream sauce around the edge of each cake.

Will hesitated, then said, “I have something to give you. Before I go.”

Hannibal paused and studied him over the bowl of cream. “Can it wait until after dessert?”

Will nodded.

“Excellent.” Hannibal finished the last plate and handed one to Will, picking up the other two, one in each hand. “Shall we?”

**VI**

Dessert was uneventful but delicious: the mini cake was moist and had some kind of berry filling in the middle, which the fresh fruit on top complimented, and then was finished off with the whipped cream sauce. When they finished, Alana made stilted small talk with Will as Hannibal cleared the table, asking him polite questions about his classes and his dogs. He refused to ask her similar questions in response, giving her the bare minimum, and she soon gave up. They sat in cold silence until Hannibal came back.

Will stood up to leave, but Hannibal looked at Alana and said, “Alana. A moment?”

Alana looked confused but complied, giving Will one last scrutinizing look before she left the dining room. Will sat back down, figuring that Hannibal was sending Alana to the living room or the study to wait there until he left, but when Hannibal returned a few minutes later, there was no sense of urgency to his movements, as if it were Will who was staying the night with him and not Alana. Will raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Would you like some more wine?” Hannibal asked, instead of explaining.

“I shouldn’t, if I’m to drive home.” However, Will didn’t move from his seat.

Hannibal pursed his lips. “Alana has left,” he said, as if that affected Will’s blood alcohol content. “She has a long day tomorrow. We can sit in the study until you feel clear-headed enough to drive.”

And that was how Will found himself in Hannibal’s study instead of Alana, nursing a glass of wine as Hannibal stoked the fire in the fireplace. He hadn’t thought of this possibility, so he was thrown a little off-guard, but he could modify his plans. He would give Hannibal the teacup and go home as planned, but in this case, Hannibal would spend the night completely alone. It still worked to show him what he was missing, but with the added sting of having no company instead of unsatisfactory company. Will just hoped that Hannibal wouldn’t ask him to stay the night. He didn’t know if he would be able to say no.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to give you what I brought,” Will said, leaning his head back and sipping his wine as Hannibal tidied his desk.

The look Hannibal gave him was enough of an encouragement. Will got up, took the gift-wrapped box out of his satchel, and handed it to him. Hannibal took it from him and studied it with open curiosity and bemusement, an eyebrow slightly cocked.

“Is it my birthday?”

Will nearly snorted, but he refrained. “Open it,” he said instead.

After a moment’s contemplation, Hannibal sat down at his desk and picked up a scalpel, peeling back the wrapping paper to leave it folded neatly on the desk. Then he opened the box. Will watched his face and was rewarded with the bright, subtle flicker of emotion as the contents registered. Hannibal lifted the teacup out of the box with so much care that one might think it was brand-new fine china rather than a broken porcelain cup glued back together with gold dust and prayers.

“The art of kintsugi,” Hannibal said, his voice thick with emotion. A bittersweet smile played on his face as he studied the cup from every angle. “Emphasizing and beautifying brokenness rather than hiding or devaluing it.”

Will sat on the edge of Hannibal’s desk and watched him study the cup with a strange twist of warmth and grief in his stomach. “Although some teacups are beyond repair...time doesn’t have to reverse for a teacup to come back together.”

Hannibal was still looking at the cup, rather than up at Will, but Will caught the wetness of his eyes.

“I see you, Hannibal. I understand you. And I...” Will paused before the plunge, nearly choking on the truth of what he was about to confess. “I...I forgive you. You can’t bring back Abigail, and I will always grieve that. But......” He swallowed. “I’ve never known myself as well as I’ve known myself when I’m with you. Abigail’s death doesn’t change that.”

Hannibal looked up and met his eyes. Will was startled by the intensity of the emotion behind them. They glistened in the light, dark and wet, but underneath, they were drowning in wonder and shock, hope and fear, hunger and longing, and something that dangerously was close to fondness.

Hannibal dropped his eyes back to the teacup, and silence stretched between them as he studied its cracks, turning it over and over again in his hands. Then he said, almost hesitantly: “The more you know yourself, the more patience you have for what you see in others.”

Will bit his lip. “Patience has never been my problem.”

“What has?”

“Acceptance.”

He watched Hannibal swallow and felt another quiet rush of power. Hannibal traced his finger along one of the mended cracks on the teacup and said softly, “Happiness can only exist in acceptance. Are you happy, Will?”

“I don’t know if happy is the right word. Pacified, maybe. Less at odds with myself.”

Will wasn’t aware of how true his words were until they left his mouth. It was a strange feeling, being so open and honest, not just with somebody else, but also with himself. He wanted to blame it on the alcohol, but he’d had less than two glasses of wine the entire night. No, it was just how he was around Hannibal. Maybe that was why he was here of his own volition, with a gift and unearned forgiveness. He didn’t want to think about it, but the box in his mind of things he didn’t want to think about was too full to hold anything else.

He _wanted_ to be here. He wanted to be here with Hannibal. He could no longer deny that, which meant that he needed to leave before he did something stupid and rash. He swirled the last bit of his wine around in his glass and said, forcing the words past his lips, “I should go.”

Hannibal placed the teacup lovingly on his desk, then, after a moment’s contemplation, stood up. “Would you stay a moment longer? I have something for you, as well.”

Will frowned slightly as Hannibal moved to the doorway. That hadn’t been part of the plan, either. He couldn’t imagine what Hannibal could have in mind; he hadn’t been obvious about why he had taken the teacup home with him, so how would Hannibal have known to plan accordingly?

Hannibal reached the door and turned back to look at him. “Will you wait here?”

Will hesitated for only a moment before he nodded and settled back in his chair, nursing his glass of wine. Curiosity got the best of him — at least, that’s what he told himself to justify his staying. It was true that he had no idea what Hannibal had in store for him. It could be negative, but he doubted it; it would be rude to answer a gift with ingratitude or maliciousness. So it would be a positive or neutral surprise. But what? It occurred to him as he sat and pondered that he hadn’t often, if ever, been left alone in Hannibal’s house, other than in the dining room. It would be the perfect opportunity to snoop. Jack would want him to. But Will didn’t want to. He couldn’t imagine breaking Hannibal’s trust like that when he was so close to properly gaining it.

 _You don’t want to break his trust at all_ , his inner voice mocked, but he didn’t have the energy to fight it. He sipped his wine instead and waited.

Time stretched out, so long that he almost wondered if Hannibal was coming back. Shadows crept across the room as the fire dwindled in the fireplace. He finished his glass of wine and set it on the side table. Part of him thought that he should feel wary, but if anything, what he felt was anticipation. Tonight felt like a breakthrough. A breakthrough in what, he couldn’t say, but it had him on edge in the best possible way. Perhaps the worst possible way, too.

Eventually, Hannibal rapped on the door frame to announce his presence. Will glanced up. He stood up to meet him, then almost sat back down in shock when he saw what — or who — Hannibal had with him.

He’d been right about the breakthrough.

It was _Abigail._

**VII**

Will was awash in a wave of emotion so great that he could hardly stay standing. _Abigail Hobbs was alive._ Hannibal had kept Abigail alive. She was alive, and breathing, and _right in front of him_. Will’s whole body shook, nerve endings buzzing as if he’d been struck by lightning. She looked just as he remembered her: wide blue eyes like a doe in the headlights of an oncoming car, deathly pale skin smattered with freckles, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, except there was no scarf around her neck to hide her scar, and her left ear— oh god, her ear—

“Abigail?” he croaked. “You’re— I thought—”

Will stood frozen as Abigail gave him a shaky smile, his impulses pulling him in so many directions at once that he couldn’t follow any of them. He wanted to hug Abigail, he wanted to sob, he wanted to punch Hannibal in the face, he wanted to kill Hannibal, he wanted to kiss Hannibal, he—

He turned slowly, struggling to process the dual surge of confusion and understanding that swept away any words that he could form, and looked to Hannibal.

“You were right,” Hannibal said softly. For the first time ever, it was Will who was seeking eye contact and Hannibal who was avoiding it, lingering on Will’s nose, his lips, his cheeks, anything but his eyes. “Time didn’t have to reverse for the teacup to come back together.” Hannibal reached up tentatively and cupped Will’s face, so tenderly that Will couldn’t stop himself from leaning into it (he didn’t want to stop himself, _god_ , he didn’t want to stop).

“You made me think I killed her.” Will’s voice cracked, even as he let Hannibal cradle his face with one hand. “You made me think _you_ killed her.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Hannibal paused, then said, his thumb softly caressing the side of Will’s head, “I wanted Abigail to have a place in your world, but I couldn’t put her life in jeopardy. You weren’t ready. The teacup had to shatter.”

Will shook his head. “Not just her life. Yours. You wanted me to see you. But when I did, I rejected it.”

Hannibal’s thumb stilled, and for one heart-stopping moment, Will feared that he had made a fatal mistake. But Hannibal’s voice was no different when he said, “You did.”

“Yet here I am.”

Hannibal stroked his thumb along Will’s curls. “And the teacup came back together.”

“Hannibal—” Will swallowed. It was now or never. Abigail was alive, but after this, he didn’t know if he would be. Disconcertingly, he found he didn’t really care. “Jack knows.”

“I know.”

“He thinks I’m playing you. That I’m gathering evidence to turn you in.”

“Are you?”

Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes, eyes that he had seen more of than anyone else’s, and told the truth: “No. I was. But not anymore.”

Hannibal’s hold on his face tightened almost imperceptibly, but Will didn’t try to pull away.

“How am I to trust you?” Hannibal asked softly.

“How am I to convince you?”

There was a long pause, in which the only things Will could hear were his blood racing in his ears and the crackling of the fireplace. Then:

“Leave with us.”

Will felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His lips parted, but no words formed.

“If Jack is onto us, then we’re no longer safe here.” Longing was painted naked and open across every inch of Hannibal’s face, a look that Will was beginning to realize he had seen several times before. “It will only be a matter of time before the FBI comes knocking, and I can only divert them for so long.”

Will swallowed. His chest ached in a reflection of Hannibal’s longing, a current of emotion running far deeper than he had anticipated, but to uproot his entire life, go on the run and become a fugitive, leave behind his—

“What about my dogs?”

“Taking seven dogs with us is implausible at best, but one or two...it could be done.”

Will blinked, unable to look away from Hannibal. He felt as if he should protest, make excuses, turn him down — but why? What would he be giving up? His dogs would all find loving homes, whether with Alana or otherwise. The FBI academy would find another professor to take his place. Jack could find another profiler, and it wasn’t as if Will would ever be trusted to work for the FBI again after his public breakdown and institutionalization. The few people that he’d been friendly with were either dead or had distanced themselves from him — except for Hannibal.

And now Abigail, miraculously alive and breathing, in the same room as them. She was _alive._

Will thought about what he would have if he stayed: a life in isolation with only his dogs for company, no friends, his reputation in tatters, stuck lecturing at unremarkable faces until he eventually faded into retirement and obscurity. He thought about what he would have if he left: a chance to start over, a new life, a family. Hannibal, Abigail, a few dogs. No Jack or the FBI breathing down his neck. No Alana looking at him as if at any moment he might snap and murder everyone in his vicinity. No whispers and stares dogging his every step. A chance to finally be _free_.

Hannibal was still speaking, his eyes searching Will’s face as if the secrets of the universe were hidden there. “We could leave as early as tomorrow evening. I have yet to burn my notes, but in a pinch, they could be left. Most everything is already in place. We’ll have enough of a head start that we won’t be caught. We can feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and Jack, an—”

“Yes.”

Hannibal stopped with his lips parted. He had always seemed so unflappable, but if it were possible, in this moment, his hand was not totally steady where it cupped Will’s face.

“Yes,” Will said again, in a rush, before Hannibal could speak. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

Hannibal looked as if he was seeing Will for the first time, as if he were the most beautiful creature in existence. He cradled Will’s head, and then, moving as if he expected him to pull away at any moment, drew him to his chest and held him there. Will didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt Hannibal’s damp suit vest pressed against his face.

“You let me think you killed her,” Will whispered into the fabric, and Hannibal held him tighter. “I thought— if I’d just known... Hannibal...”

They stood there like that for an eternity before Will pulled away and turned to Abigail, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered.

She gave him a watery smile. “So am I,” she quipped, and he gave a shaky laugh in response.

After a moment of hesitation, he held out his arms. Abigail met him halfway, and he squeezed her tight, hoping that he could express without words how much it meant to have her there. When she pulled away, his eyes flitted to the left side of her face, and he was hit by a conflicting wave of emotion. He thought again about the horror of vomiting up an ear. Of the blood pooled across the floor of the Hobbs’ kitchen. Of his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, and of glaring at Hannibal through the bars of a prison cell.

“Your ear...” he began slowly, but Abigail cut him off.

“It’s okay, I don’t miss it.” Her mouth quirked up on one side, Hannibal-esque in nature, before she added in a fake British accent, “’Tis just a flesh wound.”

Will snorted despite himself, but when he turned back to Hannibal, the amusement slipped away. They would have to discuss the ear. They would have to discuss _a lot_ of things. They had hurt each other _(Hannibal had hurt him)_ in too many different ways to repair it all with only a teacup and a heartfelt, tearful discussion. But they were here, and Abigail was not dead, and Hannibal was looking at him as if he had solved all the world’s problems just by existing. Will found that that was enough for him for now.

Hannibal reached out and cupped Will’s face again, his caress loving as he smoothed back Will’s curls and tucked them behind his ear. Will met his eyes and couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal murmured. “I can’t wait to show you Florence.”


End file.
